Friends, Interrupted
by FUlyric
Summary: Wilson reflects on the friendship between Taub and Kutner. Set pre- and post-"Simple Explanation."
1. Chapter 1

Friends, Interrupted

Chapter 1

I can see the two of them in line, selecting their meals and talking about something – I can't tell what, but Kutner is smiling. Then again, when is he not? They reach the register, and I notice that Kutner gestures to both their trays, and Taub fishes around in his wallet. He pays for both meals.

I can't help but chuckle at this. Unbelievable. My God, it's like watching myself with House. House and Wilson Lite. Well, sort of.

Kutner is so like House, almost eerily so. Not just in having trained Taub to foot the bill. He's got the same brazen approach to medicine, the same sort of thought process that follows a winding rabbit trail of metaphors until it arrives at the perfect solution. While House has his monster trucks and his soaps, Kutner has his comics and sci-fi movies. House has his leg, Kutner has his parents' death. But while House is a miserable ass, Kutner is…..not. I suppose he must have conquered his demons long ago. I don't know him well enough to say for sure. He's too inexperienced to have House's arrogance, although it might come if he continues to channel his boss. But Kutner also has a heart, and his own humanity doesn't bother him, like House's does.

Taub appears to have taken on my role as the stable one, the mature one. He can read people well and knows how to analyze behavior. God, he even has the marital problems, maybe a little occasional depression too. He's going to find himself led down all sorts of crazy paths by this kid. He'll probably complain and worry about it, but secretly, I bet he will enjoy every step.

And Taub is lucky. Kutner might be reckless at times, but that's from the excitement of youth. He's gotten much better handling those damn defibrillators: if he hasn't killed himself by now, I think he's safe. He doesn't pull crap with his own life for kicks, or for whatever reason House does. He respects his life and his own health, probably because of the simple fact that he's not in misery. Taub won't ever find Kutner OD'ing on stolen pills, he won't ever have to sit by a hospital bed because Kutner stuck a knife in a wall socket. He won't have to know that sick feeling, that his best friend didn't care enough about himself or you to NOT do such things. And Kutner won't do that to him.

I'm no fool. I know House is one lucky bastard – the number of things he's survived make me wonder if he's ever going to die. I find myself worrying when his lucky streak will run out, when the guardian angel or whoever looks out for him goes for a smoke….. I know then, that despite my best efforts, House will leave the world. Alone. And it will be his own fault – or his own choice. I wish to God I could change that, but I don't know if I will ever be able to. Taub will be spared that kind of fear and anxiety, God willing. He won't wake up in the morning and wonder, "Is this the day he doesn't show up to work, when the pain and misery become too much to bear for him?" He won't ever have to look at Kutner and think, "Why wasn't I able to help him? Was I the friend I should have been?"

I told House once that I wasn't so sure you could choose your friends. Maybe that's true for Taub and Kutner as well. They don't seem like they would be friends just on their own. Circumstance threw them together as coworkers, for a boss who puts them through the ringer. But then, I didn't see this sort of relationship develop with Chase and Foreman, not really. So maybe it's not the circumstances. Maybe it's just the Fates, the way the world conspired, making them click. Out of all the stress and mess, comes something worth smiling about. I don't know. Who does really? As House finally arrives at my table, stealing half my sandwich as he sits down, I think to myself, that I'm glad we're friends, come what may. And I glance across the room as Kutner sneaks a fry off of Taub's plate. I'm glad they are too.

Author's Note: I wrote this short piece from Wilson's POV back in January. I forgot about it, then rediscovered it after the events in "Simple Explanation." I was taken aback by the amount of foreshadowing I had unsuspectingly put in it. I decided to continue the story, still from Wilson's POV, dealing with the aftermath of of 5.20.


	2. Chapter 2

Taub sits alone in the cafeteria now. He doesn't read a book or a newspaper, doesn't do anything work-related. He just sits and eats his lunch. Then leaves. He doesn't hurry, and he doesn't linger. He also doesn't look around. Eyes on his plate, watching his hand bring each forkful to his mouth. It looks like he's tallying the number of bites it takes to finish a meal. I think I get it. It's like he's surprised at how much food he actually has to finish. Without Kutner sitting across from him, distracting him with conversation and sneaking morsels off his plate, it must seem like the amount of food never diminishes.

It's heart-breaking. How did we even get here?

I want to go over there. I want to sit with him, engage him, so that maybe he can come out of his cone of silence for a little while and talk about something other than obscure diseases. But is it my place? Do I know him well enough to do that? What would I even say? What can you say to a man whose best friend shot himself out of nowhere? I know how to tell someone they're dying, how to prepare a family for the last few weeks or months of their loved one's life. I can find the right words for that kind of grief. House says I've mastered it, even elevated it into an art. But this…..this has left me speechless. I could barely bring myself to approach House after it happened. Even then, as I looked at that horrible bloodstained floor and struggled to keep my emotions and stomach in check, I said the wrong thing – that he only cared about the mystery, not about Kutner himself. I was wrong about that. He cares, more than he even realizes.

House thinks he knows all and sees all. It maddens him that he didn't see Kutner struggling. He's freaked out. Hell, I'm freaked out too. Everything you think you know about a person turns out to be so off, so wrong, and you wonder if you can ever trust your perceptions again. I didn't really know Kutner that well, and I'm overwhelmed by all of this. How much more so for Taub? He spent the most time with him. I don't know what they talked about, but if Kutner had opened up to anyone, it would've been him. It should've been him. Now Taub is left not only asking why it happened, but also why he wasn't deemed worthy of Kutner's confidence.

What should I say? That I know how he must feel? I sort of do, but only to a degree. House has pulled some stupid stunts, but he's never succeeded in ending his life. I'm not even sure if that was the ultimate goal for half the things he's done. But it _was _Kutner's goal. You don't put a gun to your head unless you really mean it. There's no getting around that fact.

Even losing Amber, which I'm still not completely over, one year later, doesn't give me the wisdom to help Taub. Amber's death was an accident, as much as I wanted to blame House, to blame anyone. I had the chance to say good-bye, to be with her as she slipped away. She made her peace with it. Didn't lessen the pain for me, but at least it wasn't magnified by her feeling angry or bitter or fearful. I shudder to think what was going through Kutner's mind just before he…. Was he panicky? Was he numb? Was he at peace with the decision? Did he weep? Did he even care?

Taub looks older to me. He's in his early forties, I believe, but when Kutner made him smile, he looked younger. He doesn't smile like that anymore. His eyes have that world-weary look, like House's, the one of so much regret. Regret for every harsh word spoken, no matter the context; for not asking the right questions, seeing the right clues; for all the things left unsaid. Regret for not going to the funeral, or at least down to the morgue for one last look, which even House managed to do, in a weird demonstration of his morbid curiosity and twisted affection. Regret for not being able to stop it. And even if there was no power in heaven or earth to prevent Kutner's death, there's the regret for not being there, not holding on to him while the life rushed out of his body, so that he knew someone cared. In that moment, Kutner was, in fact, alone.

That's how Kutner died - alone in his apartment, crushed by the weight of some sadness so deep no one ever noticed it. Taub must think of that all the time. I'm sure of it, because it's what I've envisioned House doing at some point or another. That's why I'm having so much trouble with this – Taub is living my nightmare.

He gets up and places his empty tray near the wastebin. He throws out his trash, turns, and walks out of the cafeteria. And I can't go after him because House is headed to my table, probably in need of some form of comfort himself, which only I can provide. I missed my chance. I waited too long. I spent so much time wondering what I should say, what I needed to say, that I wound up not saying anything at all. I wonder if that's what happened to Kutner? Did he wait too long to say anything to anyone, until he had no words? Next time I see Taub, I won't hesitate.


	3. Chapter 3

It's half past 6 PM, and I am finishing my case work in my office. I pause to stretch the crick in my neck and my eye catches sight of the lone figure on House's balcony, adjacent to my own. It's Taub. He sits on a bench with his face downcast in the dying light of day.

I know House has left for the day; he never stays past 5:00 if he can help it, and I know his leg was bothering him. I assume that Foreman and Thirteen are together, wherever they are. This is might be the only moment I get to reach out without someone interrupting and making things awkward. I hesitated before, in the cafeteria. I resolved not to do that again, so I get up and make my way to the glass door, opening it and stepping out into the warm spring evening. Taub doesn't acknowledge me, but I am positive he hears me coming.

"Hey," I say. Genius opening line. I'm gathering my thoughts together; I want to be sure to ask the right questions, then let him talk as he needs to, but at the same time I don't want to coddle him. Taub is not the type of person who would appreciate someone tiptoeing around him, assuming he has some fragile psyche.

"Hey," he replies, dully. He doesn't meet my eyes. He looks out to the horizon where the sun is sinking behind buildings and trees. What does he hope to see?

"How are you doing?" I try to sit on the dividing wall between the two balconies as casually as possible. He flicks his eyes at me like he doesn't know why I would be asking a question like that, and then silently resumes staring back out towards the sunset. "I know you've had a rough couple of weeks…"

"Months, actually," he interrupts, a little too quickly. "What with trying to keep my marriage together, and my finances going up in flames, and of course, the ever-enjoyable daily self-flagellation that is this job." His voice remains level, but the bitterness is palpable. "But you were just referring to the recent death of my colleague, am I right?" He looks back at me. The look on his face is that of a dare. Like he is saying, _Go ahead, and give me your platitudes on grieving._

"No, I was referring to the recent death of your _friend._" Ok, he's going to try to downplay his friendship with Kutner. I see where this is going. He figures it won't hurt so badly if he denies that Kutner was anything beyond a coworker. A coworker's death is sad, but not that devastating. You can bounce back and move on. A friend's death, especially a suicide, changes you forever. And the death of a crucial person, a _best _friend…..it's not just something you shrug off.

He doesn't take the bait. Instead, he shakes his head and again turns away. "Well, to answer your question, I'm doing just fine. Peachy dandy." This guy is good with the sarcastic deflection. And he's been doing it since the moment he heard the news. I wonder what Kutner would say about it. He'd call him on it. At least I think so. Kutner encouraged honesty; in his childish naïveté, he thought the truth was the best course, even when it hurt.

"Is that why you eat lunch by yourself, and barely speak to anyone? That why you're still sitting here at this 'self-flagellating job' instead of going home to your wife?" Again, Taub looks at me. This time, it's a look of frustration, a look that's wondering why I am doing this to him.

"It's not going to work, Wilson. I know your Spidey-sense was tingling at the thought of helping the neediest person in your purview, I can even sort of appreciate that, but I don't need this. It is what it is. Kutner decided he didn't want to live, and he didn't have the courtesy to tell anyone he wasn't going to be around anymore. Everything else, whatever conversations we had, the lunches, the fun and the games, whatever - it is meaningless now. Just forget it, _please_." His voice is raised now. He isn't shouting, but it's a tone that in no uncertain terms means that he doesn't wish to pursue the topic any further. It's like talking to a damn brick wall. Well, actually, to be honest….it's more like talking to House.

"Look, I get that you're angry. I know you're pissed off about what Kutner did. I don't blame you. But Kutner was still a good-hearted, generous guy whom you genuinely liked. Do you really want that hatred of what Kutner _did_ poisoning your memories of who he _was_? You will never forgive yourself if you decide to taint what you have left." I turn to go back to my office. So much for good intentions. Obviously this isn't going anywhere, and I am just as frustrated as Taub. I'm not sure why I thought it would go any differently. Had I expected a loving tribute from a man who was so angry at Kutner, he didn't bother going to his memorial service? He wasn't ready. Judging from the harshness of his tone, he might never be. But I want to say one more thing. "Denying your friendship with Kutner doesn't erase it, you know. I tried doing that once. The truth always wins out in the end, and I think you know that. Whatever." I throw my hands up, indicating I'm now done with the conversation. "Look, I just saw you out here, and I wanted you to know that if you ever needed to talk, about Kutner, or whatever, that I was here to listen. And I still am." I sigh, and turn to go.

I have almost reached my office door, when he speaks again. "No one wants to talk about him."

I turn around slowly and look at him. It was so quiet, I'm actually not sure if he really said it or if it was my imagination. His anger and the sarcastic veneer are gone. Now he just looks lost, and confused. Suddenly, it's like he's a little boy who has just had his first experience with death and none of the adults have bothered to explain it to him. He continues.

"I started talking to Thirteen about him yesterday - she liked him - but she just changed the subject back to the patient and then went to find Foreman. He doesn't want to talk about him either. I don't know why…." He trails off. Taub's face is so open now; the mask has fallen away, and I suddenly realize this is the first time I have ever really seen him. The first time he has let anyone _see_ him. Did Kutner see this side of him? Is that why Taub has been hiding from everyone since Kutner died?

He hasn't talked about Kutner's death because no one has been willing to listen. Suicide is too delicate for polite conversation. I don't want to let him go back into hiding now. "I'd like to talk about him."

"Why? You barely even knew him." It's not an accusation. It's just a simple, gently stated fact.

"That's true. I didn't know him as well you did. But I liked him. He was a good man. I would have liked to know him better. Tell me about him."

He pauses for a moment and considers my invitation. I hold my breath.

"Okay."

I nod. "You want to grab a beer?"

"Yeah." Taub manages a small smile. We both head to our respective offices and get our jackets and wallets. I will treat him to a drink or two, or ten, and let him talk as much as he needs to. I doubt there will be any miraculous healing in one night. But I'm willing to see this through, until whatever feelings darkening his heart are purged. I am hoping that maybe tonight, the small crack in Taub's hard shell will start to widen a bit. Perhaps a little light can begin to shine through. We'll see.


	4. Chapter 4

We go to a bar a few blocks from the hospital. I buy the first round, Taub the second. He starts off hesitantly, as if he doesn't fully believe he's allowed to broach the subject of Kutner with another human being. Once he realizes that I am serious about wanting to know, it frees him, and he delves into the vault of his memory, reaching for every story he can recall. I realize he's been desperate to talk about Kutner to someone, anyone who had also known him. His wife has been understanding to a point, but she didn't know Kutner. She could give sympathy, but could not truly identify with his grief. Perhaps he wants to prove to himself that the good times of the past two years were not dreams, that Kutner was not some figment of his imagination.

The alcohol flows freely at this impromptu wake, and so do the stories of the life and times of Lawrence Kutner. Some of them I've heard before: the way Kutner flipped his number from 6 to 9 to stay in the competition for the fellowship and thought no one would notice; House's revenge for the online clinic Kutner had been running under his name; of course, the infamous near-electrocution with the defibrillators used on the wet patient. We both agree that event was probably the moment that clinched Kutner's spot on the team – House had been beyond impressed, as well as perplexed, with this overzealous kid, christening him his "Defibrillator Specialist." Other stories are told that I haven't heard about: we both have tears of laughter pouring from our eyes when Taub tells me what Kutner had done to House's lounge chair. House neglected to share that information with me, probably out of embarrassment for having been bested. I look forward to bringing it up in his presence somehow in the near future.

Of course, the darkness of regret is brought to the surface, too. Taub shreds the label on his beer bottle as he speaks. "I don't have a lot of friends. I have colleagues from my old practice – people whose dinner parties you attend, people you play a round of golf with on the weekends. But I haven't had a _friend_ in years. I never realized there was anything missing until we began talking, opening up." He pauses to take a sip. "I'm not good at being a friend… not a very good friend." He says this sadly, but it's not alcohol that makes him rephrase that idea. There's a shadow of guilt shrouding that small statement. I ask him why he says that.

"Kutner came up with the diagnosis for our locked-in patient. When House approached us in the locker room, he congratulated us on the idea, and then asked who came up with it. I…" He doesn't want to go on, but he's come too far. "I panicked. House had been harassing me, baiting me. He said if I didn't contribute something significant to the case, I was fired. It was my last chance. So I spoke up and said that the diagnosis was my idea. And Kutner…" He's beginning to get choked up. "He just looked at me and nodded, like he was saying it's okay. I was so ashamed at that moment; I just left, without another word." Taub is crying openly now, the weight of this guilt and shame breaking the barriers behind his eyes. "I…I had no idea that would be the last time I saw him. I had every intention of taking him aside the next day, of explaining, apologizing, making it up to him somehow….When he didn't show up in the morning, I thought, I can help him keep out of trouble – I made up some excuse about his sick dog. I thought I had bought him some time with House….I had no idea….if I hadn't said…" He can't go on. He puts his hand over his eyes and cries silently, ashamed of his sin for which there would be no absolution.

I know what he was going to say before he broke down. He wanted to say if he hadn't lied about where Kutner was, House would've sent someone over to his apartment sooner. He wonders if Kutner would still be alive if he hadn't picked that moment to cover for his friend. He wonders if that moment of panic on his part is the reason Kutner decided to put a bullet in his head. I don't know what pushed Kutner over the edge, but deep in my heart, I don't think it was Taub's "misdeed." I lean forward in my earnestness to tell him so.

"This is not your fault. I can't let you lie to yourself like that. I think we all are bearing some modicum of guilt for what happened, but in the end, Kutner had free will. He made a choice. We don't know what was going through his mind; it's very possible this decision had been made long before that particular moment." Taub is shaking his head beneath his hand. He doesn't believe me, doesn't want to hear my rationalizations. But I can't stop. "Kutner, in spite of whatever was going on in his head or in his heart, was a genuinely nice guy who liked helping people. He liked you. You spoke up first in panic – okay. But I don't think he would have hesitated to give you credit. He knew how rough House was being. He wanted you to keep your job."

Taub tries to wipe his nose with a cocktail napkin. "You're probably right about that. And in the end, House knew the truth. He said so the next day. House knew the whole time, and in his own way he was being merciful to me. He knew. That should make me feel better." He looks at me with reddened eyes, filled with remorse. "But it doesn't. I didn't deserve any of it. Not Kutner's generosity, not House's leniency. I still don't. Every day I go to work, knowing I don't really deserve to be there. This job terrifies me."

"Kutner gave you a second chance. You wanted it, so you reached out and grabbed it. But he let you. So…." I search for the words. "_Earn it_. Make sure that generosity doesn't go to waste. He wouldn't want you to be afraid anymore. Earn the trust he put in you, earn the sacrifice. Let that last favor he did for you count for something." Taub looks like he's contemplating my words seriously. He nods in agreement. He's too choked up to say anything at this point.

We finish our round, and it's nearing midnight. We are responsible, deciding to share a cab. As we silently roll through the empty streets, he finally speaks again. "I wanted to write a note to Kutner's parents. I haven't been able to find the right words." He fiddles with the buttons on his jacket sleeve. "I think I know what to say now. But I wonder if I waited too long."

He looks to me, for either affirmation of his fear, or reassurance that it's not too late. I know what it's like to wonder if my hesitation would have a cost. So I go with the latter choice. "I think you should write to them. I'm sure they would appreciate hearing from you." He nods.

The cab pulls up in front of my building. I pay my part of the fare and get out of the backseat. Before closing the door, Taub asks, "If I brought you the note, would you tell me if it was okay? I mean, you've met them…" I realize he's nervous. He didn't go to the funeral; he has let his silence go on for nearly a month. He doesn't want to cause fresh pain for a grieving family, so he wants to choose his words carefully. But he doesn't trust himself, with his own grief and guilt still so raw. He's looking to me, as someone who deals with grieving families all the time, to help him say the right thing. I say I would be glad to look it over. He smiles, and I close the car door.

As I head toward the front stoop of my building, I hear him call through the open window. I turn back. He simply says, "Thank you." I smile, and the cab pulls away into the night.


End file.
